When the Saint comes, she does not collect food

#363 - Battle of Black Mountain (VII)

The chainmail slid against his skin, rising and falling with the movements of his warhorse.

In the morning sunlight, a gentle breeze stirred, and the verdant shrubs and grassy fields reflected a jade-like, soft light.

This light, shining on his face, brought no sting or heat, but rather felt like the gentle caress of butterfly wings.

Such a beautiful day should be spent picnicking, with those addle-brained little ladies near the estate, always scheming for status.

Lying beneath the shade of trees, his head pillowed on their soft bellies and breasts—that's what this weather was made for.

But instead of little ladies, he now faced thousands of burly men.

Following Nidsal's instructions, Zeraken led his slow-moving infantry phalanx forward.

Once he truly entered the battlefield and saw the horizontal formation before him, Zeraken began to rub his nose.

This was a habitual gesture when he felt troubled and anxious.

The rebel's horizontal formation stretched for about 200 meters, which was very rare in normal Imperial army engagements.

Because with the same number of troops, stretching the formation too wide meant it was too thin, making it easily breached by knights.

The knights had already charged once; normally, they should have easily broken through and returned with victory.

However, sadly, these brave gentlemen were blown back by that devilish wind before they could even get close.

These knights, once possessing transcendence, were even worse than the knights from Horn's homeland when stripped of their extraordinary abilities.

But this was understandable; after all, in Horn's homeland, cavalry tactics had evolved alongside centuries of firearm development.

It took roughly a century for firearms to evolve from crude hand cannons to heavy matchlock guns, and both sides had become familiar with each other's existence through dynamic interplay in war.

But for the extraordinary knights of this world, it had only taken half a year to go from the crudest Cannity Mark I to the currently mature Cannity Mark III heavy gun.

And the Maurice tactics Horn had picked up from his homeland were mature tactics developed after centuries of firearm development.

These tactics were quite advanced, even for their time.

Some knights were even seeing these weapons for the first time; if not for their transcendence, their performance would probably be even worse.

Zeraken rubbed the dirt from his fingers and flicked it aside: "Brave knights, could you charge again?"

The manservant shook his head numbly: "They say they won't fight until the devil wind wizard is routed; they say they are noble knights and shouldn't die so undignifiedly. Base matters should be left to base people."

"These cowards! They strike hard against mobs but become timid when facing rebels!" Seething with anger, Zeraken couldn't help but curse under his breath.

"The knights' effects have just worn off; they need to rest."

"If they can't, they can't. What does 'need to rest' even mean?" Zeraken cursed a few times but still shifted his attention back to the battlefield.

Raising his head, amidst the chaotic sounds of footsteps, he finally reached a position where he could roughly see the battlefield before him.

Ceasing his inner complaints, Zeraken narrowed his eyes, carefully observing the battle formation before him.

In the blurred light and shadows directly ahead, he silently counted the number of enemies.

According to his own estimation, the enemy was arranged as "20 wizards, 50 spearmen, 20 wizards, 20 wizards, 50 spearmen, 20 wizards."

This was easy to discern; all those wearing armor were spearmen, and those only wearing helmets were wizards.

This meant Horn had 100 frontline melee soldiers directly facing him, while Zeraken's phalanx only had 50 on its front.

The sides of the phalanx had relatively large spaces for maneuver, and Zeraken had to consider the possibility of the enemy's other horizontal formation launching an L-shaped attack from the side.

However, with the great phalanx already formed, there was no time to change formation; they could only continue to advance.

"Steady, don't panic," Zeraken shouted to the messenger. "When we reach 160 yards (145 meters) from the front line, archers, fire a volley to suppress them."

On the outer corners of the Denjar infantry great phalanx were 100 archers each. After the messenger relayed the order, those archers, mostly from ranger backgrounds, began to command the other archers.

At a distance of roughly 160 yards, the archers stopped, drew arrows from the quivers on their backs, and nocked them onto their bows.

They gritted their teeth, and the veins bulged on their thick arms as they drew back their hunting bows until the bows formed a semi-circle.

The arrows trembled, and the archers trembled with them, aiming the arrows at a 45-degree angle based on their experience, even though they didn't understand what an angle was.

"Release!"

A series of "thwangs" instantly rang out from the archers' formation.

"Watch out for the arrows, dodge!"

Victor saw a sparse cloud of black mist rising from the enemy formation and immediately shouted to the soldiers behind him.

Showers of arrows rained down on the saucer-shaped brimmed helmets, creating a constant clanging sound.

In a matter of seconds, the ground, the helmets, and the War Monks were covered in arrows.

These arrows only wounded a few people; they weren't fatal and didn't even significantly affect the upcoming battle. Some didn't even penetrate the woolen cloaks.

These archers were mostly hunters and rangers, while longbowmen, as elite ranged troops, required training.

But in the Imperial knights' honor system, the longbow was seen as the weapon of cowards and weaklings.

Unlike the dry Flesh Court, the Empire had not yet developed the technology to mass-produce composite bows due to the relatively humid climate.

To achieve the killing power of a war bow with a single-piece bow, the requirements for bow materials were very high; probably only the rare yew wood could meet the conditions.

But these archers weren't regular soldiers; where would they get yew bows?

Moreover, to meet the demands of a war bow, at least a hundred pounds of draw weight was needed.

For these hunters and rangers, bows exceeding sixty pounds were beyond their hunting needs, so they wouldn't train that hard.

Excellent longbowmen capable of sufficient killing power did exist in Thousand River Valley, but their name was—Mountain Kushites.

Due to the Kush tribe's cultural traditions, coupled with the need to personally hunt and abundant forest resources, the Boar Riders were all elite longbowmen.

Yes, facing the clockwork guns, the elite longbowmen Zeraken needed most were actually on the opposite side.

"Old Brother Muir, what brings you here?" Victor, who was directing the reloading, turned his head at the sound of hooves and was overjoyed.

It was Muir, the Boar Rider leader who had traded his donkey for a horse. Muir reined in his horse and said, "His Majesty sent me to help you and break their spirit."

Two hundred and fifty Boar Riders and Kushite Riders dismounted on the left side of the formation. They held onto their saddles and jumped nimbly from their horses.

After handing their warhorses over to handlers, Muir began to boost the morale of the Boar Riders.

"The commander opposite us is Zeraken. He hired us to fight Black Snake Bay the year before last. We fought for a whole year, and he only paid us a third of our wages."

The Boar Riders were first stunned, then began to curse in unison.

"I'll be damned, it's that kid!"

"It was him last year who made my wife scold me for a whole year."

"I've wanted to beat him up for a long time!"

The Boar Riders, fueled by unpaid wages, instantly surged with momentum, which continued to climb.

"In one minute, shoot all six arrows into their asses!"

Amid Muir's crude shouts, over two hundred mountain ash longbows instantly bent into semi-circles, followed by the sound of nightmare-inducing bowstrings.